


I'll Follow You

by Heather_Night



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Hurt Peter, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Peter Hale, Scott is a Good Friend, Soul Bond, Spark Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8977696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather_Night/pseuds/Heather_Night
Summary: “Hello, Peter.  We have a proposition for you.”  Peter recognized that voice.  It belonged to the one time Hale emissary, Alan Deaton.  Peter’s fangs dropped and he growled but it was pathetic to his own ears.  He didn’t trust a word out of the druid’s mouth but there was little he could do about it in his weakened state.The light moved to the side and Peter blinked to clear his vision.  A throat was cleared and Peter heard a husky, “Hey, Peter.”  He recognized that voice as well.  Stiles.  The too clever human boy who ran with wolves.  Interesting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fills my wildcard Hurt/Comfort Bingo prompt and I went with soulbond. Peter is such a fascinating character to me and I'm not sure I did him justice here but this was fun to write.

_I'll follow you down, through the eye of the storm_  
_Don't worry I'll keep you warm._  
_I'll follow you down, while we're passing through space_  
_I don't care if we fall from grace_  
_I'll follow you down_

 

- _I’ll Follow You_ by Shinedown

 

The lights flickered overhead and Peter rolled his eyes. The flutter in energy was reminiscent of restaurants that dimmed the lighting to cast a more romantic mood over the patrons at a certain evening hour. In this case the mood lighting was wasted as the magical beings incarcerated at Eichen House didn’t have an appreciation for fine dining. Of course they could be forgiven this transgression, as they were too busy just trying to survive.

Peter pushed the depressing thoughts to the side. He couldn’t afford to give in to the bouts of ennui that afflicted him by turns amidst the low level of violence that continually simmered below, and on some occasions, on the surface of his emotions.

The humming of the electricity that powered everything—the lighting, security doors, warning sirens—powered down, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

Peter rolled to his feet, rising swiftly, when he found himself surrounded by oppressive darkness. He blinked his eyes, trying to bring forth his wolf vision, but the wolfsbane they infused his cell with kept his powers in check. His door slid open and a spotlight raked across his field of vision, practically blinding him.

“Hello, Peter. We have a proposition for you.” 

Peter recognized that voice. It belonged to the one time Hale emissary, Alan Deaton. Peter’s fangs dropped and he growled but it was pathetic to his own ears. He didn’t trust a word out of the druid’s mouth but there was little he could do about it in his weakened state.

The light moved to the side and Peter blinked to clear his vision. A throat was cleared and Peter heard a husky, “Hey, Peter.” 

He recognized that voice as well. Stiles. The too clever human boy who ran with wolves. Interesting.

Peter swept his arm to indicate his surroundings. “Please, have a seat if you can find one. I am your captive audience.” He sank down on to the cement floor and crossed his legs, propping his elbows onto his knees while resting his chin upon his bridged hands. He liked to think he conveyed an aura of casual chic uncommon to the cells.

Stiles mimicked Peter’s pose after propping the flashlight so it spilled its light toward the ceiling. His movements were fluid, almost graceful; it was a far cry from the herky-jerky spastic movements the teen had displayed previously. The spots disappeared from his eyes and he was left staring at the shadowed vision of Stiles Stilinski, wishing he could see the other changes time had wrought.

Deaton stood off to the side, arms folded over his chest, staring at the cross-legged men sitting on the floor. “Stiles, why don’t you explain the purpose of our visit?”

The teen clapped his hands once and Peter leaned backward as a blue light pulsed outward from the slap. Stiles laughed but it had a nervous edge to it. “Oops. Sorry. That got away from me. Okay. Beacon Hills has a bit of a problem and we think you’re the solution.”

Peter suppressed the grin threatening to break over his face. Finally. He was going to have some leverage to get out of this horror chamber. And if that didn’t pan out at least he could toy with his favorite human a bit. Although the blue energy pulse made him think there was more to Stiles then being a mere human. “Continue.”

Stiles rubbed a hand through his hair and Peter caught a waft of scent. Anxiety mixed with appealing hints of cinnamon and vanilla. Pure Stiles. “So. Hunters are using the Nemeton to unleash a virus targeting the supernatural creatures of Beacon Hills.”

“What does this have to do with me? Closeted away in this fine facility I perhaps have some measure of protection from the virus, unless you’ve managed to infect us all with your little visit.” Deaton was too wily for such an overt move. Peter bided his time, waiting for the real reason he was being visited.

“I’masparkandIneedapowerboosttoputastoptothevirus,” Stiles spit out in a machine-gun burst.

It took just a moment for Peter to parse the message. Stiles was a spark and he needed a power boost.

Sparks were a rare commodity amongst packs and jealousy took root deeply within Peter that Scott McCall had one. The Hales should rule the territory, not some teenybopper upstart. Peter ignored the salient fact that he’d been the one to bite young McCall.

“I always knew there was something special about you, Stiles. Now what do you require of me and more importantly, what do I get out of this scheme?” Peter got right down to business. He was no stranger to the parlay.

Stiles took a breath and answered, “Me.” 

Peter blinked hard at Stiles’s response. As far as Peter knew, no one realized the depth of his fascination for the young man. He’d always regretted not giving Stiles the bite when he’d had the chance. Stiles had moral flexibility, a creative mind and was far wittier than most adults, and Peter conjectured these attributes would have made the teen his perfect protégé.

Taking a breath, Peter inclined his head. “Explain. Please.”

Deaton joined the discussion at this point, much to Peter’s chagrin. The man had a smooth, mellow voice but Peter much preferred the verbal jousting and teasing rhythm he had with the younger human. “Stiles is an extremely strong spark but there isn’t enough time to train him. There is a spell we can use to boost his power but we need a descendant of the town’s founding family for it to work. That’s where you come in.”

“Why me? I’m sure Derek would love to play knight in shining armor for this fair city.” Peter jibed. He had a complicated relationship with his nephew. Really, who didn’t he have a complicated relationship with?

Stiles remained silent while Deaton responded. “Derek is with Cora in South America. Neither one of them will be able to return on our limited time table.”

Peter refused to show emotion but he was pleased that Cora was alive. Alive and with her older brother. That left one other Hale to account for and Peter found it difficult to believe that she hadn’t been the first choice, unless of course this spell would cause damage to the Hale descendant. “What about the lovely Malia?”

His daughter. Peter wished he’d known of her existence, that he could have had a hand in raising her. Talia must’ve had her reasons for banishing her memory from Peter’s mind but it hurt. It also left a hole where the father-daughter bond should have existed. Malia was an abstract idea that he couldn’t connect with, at least not yet. He hoped over time he could remedy that. Family was almost everything to a wolf along with territory.

“Malia is currently incommunicado.” Deaton’s tone indicated that would be all that was said on the topic.

“Fine, so I’m the last Hale in the area. Back to the original question: What do you need to do exactly and what’s in it for me?” Peter probed. Until he had adequate answers he wasn’t going to agree to anything. He believed in always reading the fine print.

Stiles pushed off the ground smoothly until he was standing, brushing his hands against his thighs. It was hard to make out in the gloom but Stiles pursed his lips, frowning. “What do you know about soulbonds?” 

Peter opened his mouth but then closed it. “Well, I must admit, everything I know about soulbonding, I learned from fanfiction,” he answered. It wasn’t true, he know plenty about soulbonds, but he did so enjoy teasing the young man.

For the first time since he entered Peter’s cell, Stiles showed true emotion in the loud bark of laughter that escaped him. Deaton looked toward the teen and that, sadly, was enough to stop the teen’s mirth. 

The druid shook his head, explaining, “A soulbond is a mystic or psychic bond between two beings. This bond is irresistible, a force that unites in a unique way, fueled by magic. It can manifest itself in many variations but one thing this bond generates is power.”

“Enough power for young Stiles to stop this virus apparently. What power do I gain?” Peter queried. So far Deaton hadn’t shared anything he didn’t already know from reading through different tomes but the variations power could manifest as…that was something Peter was interested in and knew nothing about.

Deaton continued, a droning quality to his voice, as though he’d had to explain himself over and over. “You, Peter, will become an Alpha.”

Peter was pleased to still be sitting on the floor, as uncomfortable as it was, as Deaton’s words made him dizzy. 

An Alpha. 

Since he was a young adult being an alpha was what Peter had schemed and dreamed of becoming.

Adrenaline surged through him at the thought and he climbed to his feet. “Side effects?”

Power hungry he may be, but Peter was not so delusional to think the benefits came without consequences. “The bond will last the duration of your lives. If one of you dies, the other will either die shortly after or descend into madness.”

Having recently been both dead and insane, those consequences weren’t necessarily a deterrent. “What else?” With Deaton, there was always more.

“If you are on the strong end of the bond spectrum you may hear each other’s thoughts but at the very least you will feel each other’s emotions. You will bring stability to each other and influence each other without conscious effort. Balance will be achieved,” Deaton explained. 

“What about sex?” Peter knew he was smirking but at this point, he wanted to see if he could discompose Deaton.

He might not be able to see Stiles’s face well but the teen was amused by the question as the young man quipped, “I’m told there’s a reason soulbonding is a popular trope in fanfiction.”

Peter didn’t have to see Deaton’s face to tell the man was frowning; his vexation rolled off of him in waves. “You and Stiles will be linked together, incapable of having another intimate relationship with anyone else.”

Why was Stiles willing to give up his freedom, and possibly his life, and was the teen capable of giving the informed consent necessary to achieve the soulbond? The benefits—Alpha status, freedom from Eichen House, stability, and sex with Stiles—seemed to outweigh the risks for him but he wasn’t too certain about Stiles. 

“I’ll give you my answer tomorrow gentleman. I have much to think about.” Playing hard to get was definitely a weapon worth pulling out of his arsenal. He’d be a fool to rush into such a decision even though every fiber of his being was screaming to take the deal. He. Wanted. Out. Now.

Deaton’s watch beeped loudly into the hush. “Actually, this is a one time only offer on a strict deadline. The spell must be completed with the rising apex of the blue moon, which will occur in forty-five minutes. We need your answer now.”

Apparently Peter was that fool, prepared to rush into the decision. “You’ve made a compelling argument. Shall we commence with the spell?”

A fine dust settled on his skin, choking his airway. Wolfsbane. He clutched at his throat, trying to draw in air. 

Stiles tugged his arm over a broad shoulder and urged him out of the cell. “Sorry about that, but until we complete the ritual I can’t have you bolting. Too much is riding on this, Peter.”

Stiles’s heartbeat remained steady; he spoke the truth. 

It wasn’t exactly the auspicious beginning he would’ve hoped for but Peter had made his bed and now he was prepared to lie in it.

-0-

Peter might’ve been able to make a run for it but the lure of Alpha-hood acted as a strong carrot dangled in front of him. Although he was primarily carnivorous this carrot was simple too appealing to ignore.

Allowing Stiles to tuck his hand into the crook of his elbow, Peter docilely moved inside of the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic. He was escorted to a back room where he found the divine Lydia Martin, some deputy he didn’t recognize and a young man.

“Hey, Lydia, who’s taking care of Scott?” Stiles’s agitation was noticeable in both his tone and the way he gripped the girl’s shoulders.

The short girl touched the boy’s cheek. “It’s okay, Kira and her parents are watching him and Mrs. McCall is with—”

“So is everything ready?” Stiles interrupted Lydia, piquing Peter’s interest. It was easy enough to make the leap that the True Alpha was ailing with this mysterious supernatural virus but who else was in peril, that was the question.

Lydia reached for Stiles’s arm, frowning when he shrugged out of her grip. “Are you sure you want to do this, Stiles? With a little bit of time I’m sure we could come up with something else. There’s no reason to tie yourself to this,” Lydia swallowed and Peter arched his eyebrows, waiting to hear what word she would select to describe him but she settled on, “person.”

Stiles snorted inelegantly. “We don’t have time, Lydia. Now are we ready to get this show on the road or not?”

The young lady crossed her arms and glared at Stiles but he seemed immune to her actions. The uniformed deputy drew her aside and let Stiles pass by.

Stiles escorted Peter to a padded mat on the floor. The effects of the wolfsbane were lessening and he could smell the bodily fluids of many small animals upon the mat. His stomach revolted and he had to work in order to settle it down. Stiles squeezed his shoulder, indicating he should sit on the mat, and Peter took advantage of his proximity to fill his nostrils with the heady scent of the young man.

Deaton took a piece of chalk and began drawing symbols on the floor around them. Peter recognized some of the symbols—health, dominion, fortune—but others he’d never seen before. He tried to commit them to memory but he was too distracted by the anxiety emanating from Stiles. 

“Stiles, are you sure about this? Once we’re tied together, there’s no going back.” Peter asked quietly, wanting to make sure Stiles was giving his complete consent to the soulbond. Maybe it was out of character but Peter wanted Stiles to wholly commit to this, to him.

Stiles gave him a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he folded himself and sat across from Peter on the mat. “I’m in this for the long haul, don’t worry Peter.” In this lighting Peter could see the purple shadows beneath those pretty eyes, the gauntness of his lean face, the stress marks between his eyebrows. 

Deaton handed Stiles two long strips of silky material, one light blue and one red. Stiles nervously fingered them, stroking the satiny fabric with his long digits, and Peter thought of other ways he’d like to use that material. 

He could blindfold the younger man. 

Bind his limbs together or tether them to something else. 

He could—Peter gulped—wind the material around Stiles’s cock and balls, keep him from ejaculating until he was a needy mess, pleading—

“We’re ready. Stiles, draw this blade across your palm.” Deaton handed the younger man an ornate blade. “Remember, it needs to be deep enough to sustain a flow of blood throughout the ritual but not too deep—”

Lydia gasped loudly as Stiles made a deep slash. “What are you doing, Stiles? You cut so deeply you probably cut a tendon!” The young lady was displeased and Peter’s wolf was in agreement, pawing to be set free as the smell of fresh blood wafted toward him.

The unknown deputy comforted Lydia, holding her back when she would’ve entered the ring to either tend to Stiles’s injury or smack him.

“Relax, if everything goes right, I’ll get a little bit of werewolf healing out of this so just relax and let me concentrate.” Stiles responded, wincing as he tied the two strips together with two interlocked overhand knots made in the parallel strips. Peter recognized the knot as a shamrock, or true lover’s knot. The symbolism could only be lost on a toddler.

“What’s he doing?” The young teenaged boy said. Perhaps the symbolism wasn’t as overt as Peter had thought. 

“Hush, Liam. Just watch.” Lydia whispered. The youngster was Liam and he was broadcasting his anxiety loud and clear. He might not be the smartest young werewolf but he at least was invested in Stiles. Or maybe it was the outcome of the ritual he cared about.

Stiles handed the red swatch of material along with the blade to Peter. “Diagonal cut across your right palm and then repeat after me.”

Peter did as he was bid, watching Stiles carefully. The younger man put a knot in the blue material close to his end, wincing as he manipulated his bleeding hand. “I bind this knot and bring us together.”

Peter’s own fingers made quick work of a knot close to his hands as he repeated the words.

Stiles intoned, “I bind this knot and make us one.”

Again Peter conformed, speaking his words, tying another knot at the same time Stiles did.

“I bind this knot as we are now, and forever, bond together.”

Peter repeated the phrase while he tied the next knot.

“Take my hand, use your right,” Stiles said as he held out his left hand. The blood congealing on his own palm slid across the blood-slicked palm of Stiles’s injured hand. The younger man squeezed tightly and blood dripped onto the lover’s knot at the center of the joined strips of material.

The cloth in Peter’s hand superheated, singing from the middle out, stopping at the last knot; it was hot enough to make Peter vigilant but not near enough to his fingers to make him drop his end.

Deaton was in the background, muttering in Latin, but Peter was too enthralled by the blue glow suffusing Stiles’s skin.

Flash-boom!

Power surged through Peter’s body like an electrical charge. It was icy cold and his heart stuttered in his chest, his lungs arrested by the arctic blast.

Something deep inside of him clicked into place, like the stem of his grandfather’s antique watch being wound and sliding home.

The soulbond was in place and everything in Peter’s life was right again.

Stiles’s hands were torn from his grip and Peter roared. 

No one would come between him and his mate.

Shaking off the adrenaline overload, Peter sought out his partner. His head was filled with chaotic voices, Deaton and Lydia in the background, but Stiles’s was the most insistent despite being the most muted. _Hurts._ His mate was in pain.

Peter scrambled forward until he hovered over the supine body before him. _Make it stop._ Stiles’s gasped but then went silent. His mouth was slack, his eyes closed…he was gone. Gone from Peter’s consciousness.

“Stiles!” The name was garbled, Peter sobbing it out past fangs grown too long. He threaded his arm behind Stiles’s neck and supported it carefully as he lifted his mate’s trunk from the ground.

Hands tried to pry the boy from his grasp but Peter snapped his jaws as he snarled and slavered. “Mine!”

“Peter, please, we need to stitch up his hand and make sure he’s okay. We’re not going to hurt him,” a voice pleaded. 

Peter recognized the girlish voice but he had to protect Stiles. No one but him was allowed to touch Stiles. 

“It’s okay, Lydia. Just step back,” Another voice, low and mellow, said. “We talked about this.”

Something touched his neck and electricity, not the kind produced by a soulbond sliding into place, but a true electrical current raced through his nervous system. Weakness filled his limbs and he was forced to set his mate down.

Several sets of hands tugged his mate away and Peter lunged after them, receiving another jolt of electricity for his efforts. He howled his outrage. 

“Mine!” he screamed again as he threw himself forward, meeting resistance that set him back a step. Mountain Ash. Pinning him in, keeping him away from his mate.

He seethed as he paced, glaring at the scene before him. Hands touched his mate, placed him on a metal table, petted at him unceasingly.

Cringing when the dark skinned man put a needle to his mate’s skin, his growl turned to a whine. He needed to comfort his mate.

Peter heard a soft murmur and concentrated hard. He knew that husky voice. He wanted to get to it.

“He’s okay, Stiles. Just relax a moment. Let us finish this up and then we’ll release him,” the druid said. Deaton. The man’s name was Alan Deaton. He was putting stiches into his mate. Stiles. Talking to Stiles. 

His higher brain functions slowly returned. Peter had been separated from Stiles while the younger man received medical care. If he could be patient just a moment longer then he’d be reunited with his mate. No, not just mate; his soulbond. 

Stiles was being helped upright and then he was shaking off the well-meaning hands of Lydia and Deaton. He stumbled a bit but then he drew his foot across the line of Mountain Ash and Peter could touch him again.

His nose buried itself on the side of Stiles’s neck as he inhaled deeply. “I’m right here, Peter. Not going anywhere without you. It’s okay.” The younger man buried his hand in the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck and scratched and soothed.

_Shhhh. We’re okay now. It worked. Just relax._

Peter’s body relaxed in increments until he was no longer keyed up and ready to tear someone apart. Stiles was in his arms. _Are you hurt?_

 _I have a headache and my hand hurts but I’m already feeling better._ Stiles replied and Peter realized he didn’t need his ears to hear them, the words were right in Peter’s mind.

Peter’s head and hand throbbed in sympathy. Or was that the soulbond?

“Is it just me or is that really creepy? It’s like they’re talking without words.” Peter recognized the younger boy, Liam’s voice.

Deaton was herding the others out of the room. “The soulbond is in place so they probably can communicate without words. Let’s leave them alone.”

The door closed behind three sets of footsteps but one set stayed behind. Deaton cleared his throat, “You need to solidify the bond tonight so that it grows as strong as possible. We’ll begin training tomorrow. Stiles, your keys are over here if you two want to leave. Remember, Stiles, there’s a lot riding on this.”

Finally. They were alone. Stiles trembled and Peter ran his hand up and down his spine.

“Solidify the bond. A new euphemism for sex. Gotta love it.” Relief and exhaustion with a hint of remaining fear poured off of the younger man in waves despite his attempt at levity.

Peter braced his arm around Stiles’s back and threaded the other behind his knees, tugging him off of his feet. “I prefer consummation. Let’s go to my apartment.”

Stiles tucked his head into the crook of Peter’s neck, snagging his keys with his good hand as they left the room. He didn’t protest the manhandling which reinforced to Peter how drained Stiles was at the moment.

The wolf inside of Peter yearned to feed and cuddle the younger man. Well before the cuddling he wanted to do other things. 

The bond was making him feel settled, the anxiety dissipating, but the anticipation of touching Stiles intimately was kindling an itch that Peter couldn’t wait to scratch

-0-

Stiles had allowed Peter to drive his Jeep and hadn’t complained when they had stalled once and he inadvertently grinded the gears on the manual transmission twice. At least by the time they pulled up to the apartment building, Stiles was able to get out of the vehicle and walk to the apartment under his own steam.

Peter’s nose twitched at the stale air assaulting them when he opened the front door. The thought of opening the refrigerator door was enough to make him nauseous.

The thought of taking Stiles to his bed was enough to overcome the nausea and his groin thickened.

First things, first. “I need to take a brief shower. Please make yourself at home.”

Stiles’s lips twitched into a half grin and Peter left him roaming around the living room.

Peter had never powered through his shower routine so quickly. He had to remind himself to slow down, he didn’t want the eau de Eichen House spoiling this seduction scene, because his animal instincts were roaring to the forefront and they wanted Peter to mate…claim…bite.

It was quiet when Peter cut the water off, toweling off before wrapping the towel around his waist. He quickly shaved—there was no need to mar Stiles’s creamy flesh with anything except his teeth tonight—and finished by brushing his teeth.

Despite trying not to dwell on impure thoughts, his cock tented the cotton fabric covering it. He left the ensuite bathroom in a billow of heat to find Stiles setting a fresh set of sheets on the bed.

Stiles flashed a smile that could only be called shy before he said, “I cleaned out the refrigerator and put the spoiled items in the dumpster. I thought you might like clean sheets.”

“Why don’t you freshen up,” Peter gestured to the blood smeared on Stiles’s hand and the front of his shirt, “and I’ll put these sheets on.” Peter smiled but his incisors wanted to elongate and he observed Stiles’s eyes widening; he was most likely flashing his ‘wolfish’ smile, the one that made prey engage their fight-or-flight instincts.

Stiles did neither. He shrugged and then headed into the bathroom. “I shouldn’t be long.”

Peter made quick work of stripping the bed. He left the comforter folded on the chair in the corner; if he had his way, these sheets would need changing soon and there was no need to make more of a mess.

The young man snorted from the shower. Peter would need to work on shielding if he didn’t want Stiles to know his every thought. 

Stiles emerged, cream towel tied around his slim waist, as Peter was smoothing the 600 thread count Egyptian Cotton sheets with the sateen weave across the bed. Stiles would look superb spread out across the scarlet red backdrop.

Peter could smell the other man’s arousal from across the room. That was all it took for Peter’s wolf to take command and he was in front of Stiles in a blink of the eye, throwing the slim man over his broad shoulder and tossing him on to the king sized bed.

Tugging the towel from those slim hips at the same time he shed his own, Peter moved on to the bedside table drawer where he kept the lubricant. He was highly aroused but that was no excuse for hurting his mate.

Later Peter would explore the long expanses of creamy skin, licking and marking each mole and beauty mark, but now was the time for expedient mating.

Peter flipped Stiles on to his stomach and the human squeaked in surprise. “I need to take care of you.” His voice was low and growly, the wolf showing itself.

“Please,” Stiles groaned, his tone pleading. Peter wasn’t the only one in this partnership ready to consummate the relationship.

He threaded an arm under Stiles’s stomach before pulling him up on his hands and knees. “It will be more comfortable for you this way for the first time but in the future I want to see your face,” Peter growled.

Stiles flexed his muscles, his buttocks dimpling with more muscle than Peter would’ve suspected, as he moaned, “Yes.”

Pumping the lube into his cupped hand, Peter spread it liberally on both palms, making sure to coat the fingers of his right hand in particular. Reaching around Stiles’s left hip, Peter gripped Stiles’s cock, stroking it firmly. His hand tightened around the base before sliding back to fondle the tight balls.

Stiles groaned. _Come on, Peter. Don’t make me beg._

 _But I want you to beg._ Peter leaned over the lean back, nuzzling the skin behind Stiles’s ear before licking it.

Huffing his impatience, Stiles thrust his hips, moving Peter’s grip along his length. It was time move things along.

Some men didn’t particularly respond to anal play, the same way some women’s, and men’s for that matter, breasts weren’t sensitive. Peter’s prostate liked to be stimulated but it didn’t produce earth-shattering results. He needed to prepare Stiles’s anus but he was curious on what part of the spectrum Stiles would appear.

Peter trailed his right index finger around the starburst muscle between the sweet cheeks, coating it well. 

_Peter…oh…_ Stiles’s thoughts cut off as Peter stroked into his heat.

Angling his finger, Peter slowly stroked forward. Time seemed to drag before the passage was loosening and he rubbed the walnut sized gland, slowly at first and then picking up speed.

 _What are you…oh…doing?_ Stiles panted even in his thoughts.

 _Do you need me to stop?_ The chemosignals flooded the air told Peter his lover was enjoying his attentions but he wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize his soulmate.

 _No. Please! I need more._ Stiles matched his thoughts by shifting his weight backward so Peter’s finger jiggled inside of him.

Both men moaned.

Peter longed to take things slow but something was urging him on, telling him to mate now. He added a second finger and then quickly a third, widening the passage as much as he could.

Stiles was keening his excitement, babbling words that didn’t make any sense, but the urgency was there.

Peter pulled out his fingers before he lined his throbbing cock up and with one hand holding Stiles’s left hip and the other hand guiding the thick rod, he pushed against the opening. The muscle resisted for just a moment and then Peter was slowly but inexorably pushing inside.

The younger man dropped his head to bent arms but Peter looped his arm around his waist, holding him up. 

In. Slide. Out. Slide.

Peter see-sawed his hips, rocking gentling, until he was seated fully.

Teeth clamped down on the join between Stiles’s neck and shoulders and the human jerked.

Peter soothed the wound with his tongue, lapping up beads of blood, his left hand snaking upward to pull the pain.

His touch didn’t encounter any.

Stiles was sobbing and jerking, hips twisting, but it wasn’t in pain.

It was ecstasy.

That was enough to set off Peter’s eruption and the fingers of both hands moved south to manipulate Stiles’s fully erect cock and full balls.

Stiles’s body seized and then he was falling into the mattress, Peter splayed across his back, both sets of hips twitching involuntarily.

Peter shifted to the side, his cock still buried in Stiles’s ass, as he pulled the human into his chest. 

_Gonna sleep…_ Stiles was out before he could complete his thought but Peter could sense his satisfaction and contentment.

Peter felt the same way.

Power strummed through Peter’s body but he refused to move from Stiles’s side. His wolf wanted to cuddle with his soulmate.

After a while Peter would rouse the younger man and feed him.

Within a matter of hours, Peter had gone from being locked up in an insane asylum for those of his kind to having his every wish granted—he was an alpha with a mate.

A soulmate.

Peter would do everything he could to hold on to both.

-0-

Deaton scratched the patch of hair on his chin thoughtfully as a breeze stirred the foliage. “The device is attached to the Nemeton. Stiles, I think if we channel all of your energy on the device, mixing your power with that of the Nemeton to boost our frequency, we can interrupt the signal,” the druid suggested. “Or obliterate it. We’ll have to see what you can do.”

_I don’t like this, Stiles._

_Peter, you don’t like anything that comes out of his mouth._

_Seriously, he wants to channel all of your energy into this untried plan of his. A spark can be drained, powerful or not, and you have other people depending on you. I’m only asking that you not make any rash decisions here._

_Believe me, I’m well aware others are depending on me._

Stiles’s face was drawn and haggard despite the infusion of power from what amounted to sex magick. Peter felt a surge of guilt; he had kept Stiles up all night in his eagerness to know every inch of the beguiling young man.

Deaton cleared his throat. “If you gentleman are through communing through your soulbond, I would like to try some simple tests to see what we have to work with. Stiles, I would like you to turn your attention to the birdbath I’ve filled with water on the side of the building,” the man motioned next to the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic.

Peter turned around so he could easily view the wrap around leaf vine design on the waist high pedestal, the resin basin sporting a bronze patina finish. He could see a shallow puddle of water shimmering in the basin, sunlight glinting off it with enough strength to make Peter wish he had his blue Gazarri Polarized Aviator Sunglasses perched upon his nose.

Stiles crinkled his nose, squinting at the bright shimmer of water.

 _The glare is making my head hurt._ Stiles sighed.

 _Borrow some of my werewolf healing, see if you can push the pain away. The faster we take care of this device, the faster you can save everyone which means you and I can go back to my apartment._ Peter encouraged. Sometimes a little insensitive helped smooth the way.

 _Point._ Stiles agreed.

Peter felt Stiles focus his gaze on him, brown eyes flaring a pretty beta golden brown. 

_Stiles was magnificent even without being a wolf._

_I can’t decide if that’s creepy or sweet._ Stiles blurted out. Crap. Peter hadn’t meant for his young lover to hear that thought. He would have to work on shielding.

“Gentleman, please. Can we move on to this exercise?” Deaton sighed.

The man must be feeling the stress if he expressed himself in such an ordinary way, huffing out his frustration.

“Sorry, of course,” Stiles responded.

“Thank you,” Deaton’s tone returned to an even, measured one. “I would like for you to concentrate on the water. Think of a lake freezing over in the winter.”

Stiles looked askance at the druid. _I’ve never seen a frozen lake except in pictures._

Peter hummed thoughtfully. _Stiles, love, think of a tray of ice cubes. First you fill the trays with water and then you slide them into the freezer. Their temperature drops to freezing and the water expands and then hardens._

_Why didn’t he just say that? Thank you…love._

Peter was definitely going to have his hands full with Stiles as his bonded.

Watching with fascination, and hunger as Stiles bit his lip in deep concentration, Peter forced his attention toward the water in the birdbath, observing it smooth out and then harden. A slight crack as the water expanded could be heard.

“Excellent, Stiles,” Deaton praised and Peter’s wolf grumbled. Only Peter should commend his mate for a job well done. “Now I want to see you thaw the ice and make it boil. Think of it as—”

“I’ve got this one, Deaton,” Peter interrupted. He didn’t want the other man to create confusion with his descriptions.

_Pull the ice cubes out of the freezer and empty them into a pan. Put the pan on the stovetop and start it to simmer. The water slowly melts and you increase the heat. Before long you have a pan with water sloshing and boiling, the liquid beginning to turn to gas as the water evaporates._

Peter was impressed as Stiles turned the metaphorical heat on under the pan and the water in the basin quickly heated to a roiling boil. 

Energy pulsed out of Peter and at first he fought it; only he had the decision on whether to share his powers or not. 

Peter turned his attention from the vaporizing liquid to his soulbond. Stiles was red in the face and he clenched and opened his hands, a fine tremor visible in the limbs. Seeing Stiles’s physical stress, even thought it was small, was enough to allow the free flow of energy. 

Under Peter’s watchful eye, Stiles gained his composure. 

“Nicely done,” Deaton exclaimed and Peter scowled. His scowl deepened when the druid announced, “I think we’re ready to approach the Nemeton and take out the device.” 

-0- 

Stiles stood shoulder to shoulder with him before the Nemeton and Peter was surprised they were of a similar height. 

In his memories Stiles was round faced yet his body was slim and slight, hunched over and fragile. This Stiles standing next to him truly was magnificent, standing tall with wide shoulders back, toned biceps flexing and face set in fierce concentration. 

_Let’s get this party started._ Peter intoned directly through their link. 

__Really? You’re quoting Pink to me?_ _

_The sentiment seemed appropriate._

_I just didn’t figure you for a Pink fan._

_There’s all sorts of things you’ll discover about me._

Peter saw Stiles face crack into a lopsided smile out of the corner of his eye. Mission accomplished—Stiles had relaxed, at least a degree.

Sitting atop the flat tree stump sat an innocuous looking black box. At least until you looked closer and saw the ancient runes carved into the wood box. 

Stiles cleared his throat. “Since there isn’t any water are you thinking I should set the box on fire?”

It was weird to hear Stiles actual voice as Peter had grown used to hearing it solely in his head for the most part. He took a moment to admire the deep pitch and husky quality before given careful thought to Stiles’s question.

Deaton, as usual, had beat a hasty retreat once he’d announced Stiles needed to obliterate the device if he wanted his best friend to live and they only had one shot at this.

The druid was ever the charmer.

“I agree with you. Burn it into ash but make it a fiery explosion and obliterate every speck of that box,” Peter’s own voice sounded husky in his ears, possibly from disuse but then again possibly from his attraction to his powerful soulbond.

Stiles clasped his hands and stretched them in front of him, cracking his knuckles lightly. Peter was fascinated with those long fingers and elegant hands. As predicted, Peter's healing factor had impacted the cut across Stiles's palm and the skin was blemish free. As it should be. 

“I’m going to have to ask you two to move away now,” the accented voice of Araya Calavera punched into the silence. “This is loaded with wolfsbane and I will not hesitate to use it.”

Araya and her son, Severo, stepped into the clearing opposite of where Stiles and Peter stood. The son wielded a rifle while the matriarch held a pistol in her hand. Both aimed their weapons at Peter.

Peter’s wolf grumbled and growled and he fought to keep from shifting. He would shift and take out the hunter bitch and her pup but first he needed to see to Stiles’s safety.

No one threatened his soulbond. Although technically, they were threatening Peter; as usual people underestimated Stiles.

His soulbond would show them how shortsighted their thinking had been. 

Without warning energy visibly pulsed from Stiles’s hands, a pretty incandescent purple, and it surrounded the matriarch’s pistol. 

She dropped her weapon, cursing in Spanish.

Severo dropped his rifle, the weapon receiving the same treatment.

As the head of the Calavera Clan reached up her sleeve, Peter sensed movement behind them. Before he could take evasive action, Stiles seemed to glow and more energy shot from his body. The thuds of what Peter assumed to be more weapons dropping to the ground were heard.

Peter shifted his weight to the balls of his feet as the knife, also wolfsbane coated according to his nose, emerged from Araya’s sleeve. “The True Alpha was warned. I told him if ever he bit an innocent and made a wolf of his own, I would find him and kill him. I am here to make good on that word. Now step away.”

In a blink Peter shifted, claws emerging along with fangs.

Araya let loose her knife as Peter sprung into the air. He refused to let any harm come to his soulbond.

The knife tumbled harmlessly the ground.

The air zipped with the unmistakable sound of arrows flying but those, too, nosedived into the ground short of their target.

“Scott didn’t want to turn Liam, hadn’t planned on it, but Liam tried to take a nosedive off of the hospital roof. Scott had no choice. He couldn’t let some kid die, even if he was a little punk, not when he could save him,” Stiles defended his friend.

Araya’s brow crinkled in thought. “So you’re saying—”

“I’m saying Scott didn’t have a choice. You feel you don’t have a choice. Now I don’t have a choice,” Stiles interrupted her.

After drawing a lungful of air, fire exploded from those fingertips and the black lacquered box superheated first into yellow, bright like the sun, but quickly changed to orange and then red before settling on blue.

The box imploded, violently, the ground shaking under their feet. Ash floated in the air like dust moats before they, too, disappeared with a crackle.

The hunters cringed back, taking protection at the sudden show of violence and maybe, finally, showing some respect as well.

“Scott won’t turn innocents unless he’s doing it to save them. You won’t come after Scott because having him here in Beacon Hills makes this territory stable. Do we understand each other?” Stiles asked calmly. 

Sweat beaded his brow and Peter could see the fine tremors affecting his hands. Stiles casually tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans, out of sight.

Peter cupped a hand behind Stiles’s neck and squeezed; the contact was meant to bring both comfort and give Stiles a push of power to replenish what had been depleted. When he began to feel a little weak in the knees, he removed his hand.

“And this,” Araya paused, her hand waving at Peter, “Alpha,” she spit out the word like it caused her pain. “A Hale Alpha no less. You expect me to believe this territory will be stable with dos alfas? Y una chispa?”

_What did she just call me?_

_She called you a spark._

_But I thought una was feminine. I am not a girl._

_The word is feminine, not you. I quite assure you, you are anything but feminine, Stiles._

Stiles took a step closer to Peter so they were once again side-by-side. A united front on full display. “Yes. I expect you to believe it. We could’ve blown you apart as easily as we did your little magical device but we didn’t. Trust has to start somewhere. I’m trusting that you’ll leave us alone as long as we abide by the Hunter-Werewolf Code. Capisce?”

_You’re mixing your Italian and Spanish, love._

_Oops. Sorry._

Both of them smiled.

“Are you two,” Araya paused as if for dramatic effect but she actually seemed to be swallowing down nausea, “soulbonded? You are twice his age!” The matriarch folded her arms over her heavy bosom, glaring at Peter. 

“Don’t look at me,” Peter smirked. “If you hadn’t decided to attack Stiles’s best friend, he never would’ve asked me to form a soulbond with him. This is your fault.”

“Madre de Dios,” Araya crossed herself before throwing up her hands. “We are leaving but if anyone in this territory gives us cause, we’ll be back.”

She motioned to her son to pick up their weapons. Severo arched a black brow at Stiles, as though asking for permission to retrieve the guns. Stiles turned his back on both hunters, focusing on Peter.

Peter expected the Calaveras to show displeasure at this show of disrespect but once they’d gathered their equipment they left peaceably enough, fading silently in the preserve.

 _What is it?_ Peter drew Stiles against his chest, his hand rubbing up and down his spine.

 _I need to go. To my dad. Will you take me?_ Soulful brown eyes with impossibly long eyelashes stared at Peter.

_Of course. I’ll take you wherever you want to go._

_Thank you. I need to get to the hospital._

_Of course, Stiles. Come on._ Peter wrapped a hand around Stiles’s bicep and headed him toward his car, steering him between trees around hidden culverts in the ground.

Peter could feel Stiles’s body shaking, probably from exertion.

Centering himself with a deep breath, Peter pictured himself stepping into Stiles’s brain and having a look around. He didn’t want to cause the younger man any distress but it would be helpful if he knew what was wrong.

Ah. The sheriff was in the hospital. Unconscious. That explained his absence.

Peter should tell Stiles he was able to access his mind like this but he thought discretion was called for, at least until the senior Stilinski was on his feet again.

_Stiles, take what you need from me. You can’t help your father if you’re unconscious._

_How did you know about my dad?_

_I’m pretty sure if he had been able he would’ve put a stop to your scheme. At the very least he would threaten me with wolfsbane infused bullets._

Silence greeted Peter’s attempt at levity but through the bond Peter could feel Stiles relaxing. Letting his guard down. Peter pushed some of his energy, his Alphahood, into Stiles. There would be time enough later for Peter to reveal his ability to access Stiles’s thoughts.

The two men advanced toward the car at moderate pace. Peter could feel Stiles’s impatience but the younger man was exhausted. He left Stiles to his own thoughts while his mind raced in many directions at one time.

Peter was careful to shield his thoughts from Stiles. With this kind of power, there was a lot Peter could do. Like challenge the True Alpha for what should be Peter’s birthright—Hale Territory.

He would have to bide his time. Peter’s wolf wanted to please his soulbond and to his surprise, so did Peter.

Only time would tell if Peter reverted to his old, power hungry ways.

-0-

Even without following Stiles, Peter could easily scent the eldest Stilinski’s location.

The long-term care wing of Beacon Hills Memorial where Peter had spent so much time locked in his damaged body, slowly going mad.

Peter didn’t want to step foot in the building, never mind entering this wing, but he was committed to remaining at Stiles’s side.

The room—thank God it wasn’t the room Peter had been stuck in—was silent except for the even respirations of the pale man stretched against white sheets.

“Dad, it’s me,” Stiles croaked, his hands curling around of the sheriff’s, chafing it gently.

_Stiles, push our power into your father. If you know what’s wrong with him, focus your energies there. Instead of using your power for destruction, use it to heal him._

Stiles was biting his lip again and despite the circumstances, Peter found himself wanting to throw his mate down and rub all over him.

 _When this is over._ Stiles promised before looking at his father again, eyes wide pools of misery.

Peter would definitely need to work on his shielding. Later.

Urging Stiles down so he was perched on the bed next to his unconscious father, Peter put his hands on the tense teen’s shoulders. Leaning over he whispered aloud, “You can do this, Stiles. Picture our power like a glowing light and then send it to whatever is causing your father’s illness and mend him.”

Stiles nodded his understanding and then put Peter’s words into action.

Instead of dark lines running up Stiles’s hands, like a werewolf taking pain, bright green light danced over his skin. Soon that green light was disappearing into the sheriff’s slack hand gripped tight between Stiles’s.

Green light suffused the sheriff’s skin, lit from within. Peter remembered from the stupid color therapy books one girlfriend had read aloud to him that green signified balance and healing. 

Peter made sure his hands slid beneath Stiles’s too loose shirt so he could touch his soulbond’s skin with his own. Instead of pulling pain, Peter pushed outward with his powers.

The green shimmer intensified.

Stiles slumped forward unexpectedly. Peter slid his hands forward until they came to rest against the skin of Stiles’s chest. He straightened his soulbondmate until Stiles was leaning against Peter, the teen’s back pressed against Peter’s front.

Peter was about to interrupt the flow of energy—he wasn’t sure how but he certainly wasn’t going to allow Stiles to drain himself dry—but before he could, Stiles gasped and let go of his father’s hand.

The green radiance surrounding the sheriff winked out of existence.

 _Are you okay?_ Peter pushed concern toward Stiles.

_I think…_

“Why are you touching my teenaged son?” The sheriff demanded. His voice was hoarse but his bright blue eyes were focused and intent.

Stiles shifted beneath Peter’s touch, as if trying to deny him the contact, but Peter refused to allow it.

“Welcome back, Sheriff,” Peter addressed the still pale man.

“Stiles, why is this man, who is easily twice your age, molesting you?” the man barked.

“Dad, you’re okay!” Stiles threw himself forward, covering his dad, hugging him lightly.

“Of course I’m okay. Now tell me why Peter Hale is fondling you in front of me and you’re allowing it,” the eldest Stilinski demanded as he patted Stiles’s back.

Stiles finally sat up and surreptitiously dabbed at his face with shoulder, blotting tears and snot.

Peter reached into his trousers pocket and withdrew a linen handkerchief. “Here,” he proffered.

His mate took the linen square and mopped up his face. Peter’s wolf wanted to lick away the distress but Peter knew the sheriff was out of patience.

The man in question raised the head of his bed and stared, bemused, at Peter and then his son.

“Tell me. Now.” There was strength and command in his words and Peter understood why the denizens of Beacon Hills would put their trust in this man to serve and protect.

“You had an infection. We think it was supernatural in origin but we couldn’t find a cure,” Stiles began his explanation.

It now occurred to Peter that there just might be more to the sheriff than met the eye. A virus specifically targeting the supernatural had affected the man. For some reason Peter had assumed Stiles had received his power through his mother but perhaps it had come through Noah Stilinski.

“And this explains the two of you being together how?” An eyebrow quirked above a blue eye as the man stared at his son. Peter had observed Stiles using the same mannerism before. On Stiles it was sexy and cute.

Stiles turned and glared at Peter. _Not now, please._

Peter inclined his head. _As you wish._

“You two are creeping me out,” the sheriff growled.

A knock on the door preceded the appearance of Melissa McCall. She panned the room, eyes lighting up when she saw the sheriff was awake. “Oh, you’re conscious. Finally. Let me get the doctor.”

“Wait!” Stiles scrambled off of the edge of the bed. “Is Scott okay?”

The nurse’s face transformed from her professional persona into a look of pure joy. “He’s just fine, Stiles. Thank you for saving him.” She drew him into a hug.

“Melissa, I need to know what’s going on. I’m not getting anywhere with these two chuckleheads so could you please explain it to me?” The sheriff requested, rubbing the side of his face tiredly.

Peter grabbed Stiles’s hand. “Come on, we’ll let the adults discuss things. I need to get some calories into you. And other things.” Peter wiggled his eyebrows at Stiles.

Stiles’s face was caught somewhere between horrified and hopeful. His skin turned bright pink from the tips of his ears, over his cheeks and down his throat. Peter wondered what else was flushed.

_Just stop. You’re embarrassing me._

_Hey, I’m glad your father is awake again. You did great today._

Stiles leaned into Peter’s side and smiled. The smile was ruined by a yawn.

“Come on, time to get you home,” Peter took his elbow and steered him toward the door.

“I have wolfsbane bullets, Hale! And I know where you live,” the sheriff threatened. In an under voice, Stiles’s father asked Melissa, “Where does he live?”

Melissa plumped a pillow and adjusted it behind the sheriff’s head. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to give you the Cliffs Notes version of what you missed and then I’m getting the doctor to check you out,” the nurse decreed in a no nonsense tone. 

“Love you, Pops. See you later,” Stiles interrupted. The young man let Peter pull him into the hallway before the sheriff could object.

Peter could sense his soulbond’s energy flagging. He couldn’t wait to get him home and feed him.

Stiles was his priority. It was strange to have someone come first in his life.

Peter’s wolf wagged its tail at the thought. There was so much they could do together.

-0-

Peter was excited to show off one of his favorite dining establishments to Stiles. Now that the sheriff was on the mend he wanted to shower his mate with attention and an overnight trip to San Francisco seemed like a good start. 

No hunters causing mayhem. No sick fathers. No pesky pack mates.

It was just the two of them, exploring their special connection.

They were immediately shown to a dark red leather booth when Peter gave his name to the maître d'. As soon as they were settled, two waiters appeared, spreading white linen napkins over their laps.

Stiles jumped but kept his comments internal. _They should really warn a guy if they’re going to be reaching for a person’s junk like that._

Peter’s wolf growled. _No one but me is going near your genitals. In a fine restaurant, they cover you with the napkin and throughout the meal will stop by to brush crumbs from the table._

_Are you sure we can’t find an In-N-Out Burger?_

_Don’t be such a philistine, dear._

Once the waiters withdrew, Stiles cleared his voice; it was a bit hoarse from disuse, which was such a turn-on, especially since Peter associated his hoarse voice with other activities. “So tell me about the name. What does RN74 stand for?” 

Stiles cocked his head at an angle, giving Peter his full attention. Even though they didn’t need to speak aloud, it would’ve been creepy to remain silent throughout dinner so they were making an effort to appear normal.

Peter reveled in his mate’s regard. He could feel his face crack into a wide smile and Stiles’s face split into an answering grin complete with dimples. “The restaurant takes its name from the highway, Route Nationale 74, which runs directly through the Burgundy region of France. RN74 is a wine-centric French inspired restaurant.”

“I see, you just wanted to drink some expensive French wine. That explains it,” Stiles teased.

“Hush, dear. The sommelier is on his way over. I need to give him my full concentration if I’m to select the perfect complement to our meal.” Peter took his wine selections, like he took anything that caught and held his attention, very seriously.

_Since I haven’t seen the menu yet, how do you know what you select is going to be the perfect complement?_

_You are not yet of age so you will only be having a sip of the wine I select._

_Ugh. You’re no fun._ Stiles’s gently curved lips belied his words.

The sommelier introduced himself as Javier and Peter gave him his full attention. Once the man was made aware that his intention was to order the Menu Degustation, a special eight course tasting menu featuring local ingredients, he was offered up several fine wines to choose from.

“Please tell me about the Rene Rostaing Cote-Rotie ‘Cote Blonde,’” Peter asked after he perused his options. It was middle of the road price-wise at $640 but price was not always a true indicator of quality.

“That would be a fine choice, sir. It shows a smooth and polished nose of sweet red fruit with a hint of creamy oak and spice. It’s quite sexy on the palate with a satin sheet mouthfeel. There's a nice touch of game to go along with the sweet cherry and raspberry fruit and spice. The tannins are pretty soft at this stage.” He had a slight accent, which was extremely appealing.

Stiles foot connected with Peter’s leg. Hard. Oops.

“Thank you, Javier. I would like to have a bottle, please.”

Javier brushed his fingers against Peter’s wrist as he plucked the wine list out of his hand. “Very good, sir. You have remarkable taste.” The man batted his dark brown eyes at Peter.

Stiles chortled but thankfully not out loud. _Who does he think he is, Javier Bardem?_

_Now, love, don’t be jealous. You know I’m not interested._

Peter reached out and clasped Stiles’s long fingers with his own. “Thank you. I happen to agree.”

Javier’s smile dimmed a little but he took the rebuff with good grace and moved along.

“Please say the name of that wine again. You make me all hot and bothered when you speak with a French accent,” Stiles teased. His pale skin was tinged with a blush visible even in the candlelight, which served as a different kind of tease.

A loud noise, similar to the feedback from a microphone, filled Peter’s mind. He shook his head to clear it as the last confusing notes faded.

Peter quickly turned to Stiles; if his head was reeling from the noise then he worried for his more delicate mate.

Stiles was staring ahead, eyes unfocused.

“Stiles, can you hear me?” Peter slid along the leather bench seat until he could wrap his arm easily around the younger man’s shoulders. “Stiles?”

Just as panic began to wend its way through Peter, Stiles jolted in place.

_Peter?_

_Right here. Are you okay?_

_I feel…_

Peter reached out into Stiles’s mind to get a more direct read on what was happening to his mate when his thought remained unfinished. Stiles was never at a loss for words.

Confusion. Bafflement. Disarray.

Stiles’s mind was a cluttered mess.

_Out!_

Stiles shoved him out, mentally, severing the direct link. Discomfort throbbed in both of Peter’s temples and he pulled his arm back, massaging away the pain with both hands.

When he turned his head, Stiles’s head was dipped down and he looked very contrite.

_Sorry._

Before Peter could delve into what had just occurred, the sommelier returned. He carried the requested bottle, two beautiful wine glasses and corkscrew atop a tray, a white towel draped over his arm.

After setting the items on the table, Javier made quick work of pulling the corkscrew out, adding a little flourish as it made the popping sound. There was no need to decant the bottle as the cork had come out in once piece.

“Does this meet with sir’s approval?” Javier asked as he splashed a mouthful of wine into the Riedel Vinum Syrah/Rhone Wine Glass, which was de rigueur for the ultimate syrah wine tasting experience.

Peter took his time in evaluating the sight of the wine, partly to calm his nerves and partly to enjoy the ritual. The side view and tilted view revealed the deep inky purple of the wine.

Giving an open freestyle swirl, Peter noted the wine had good legs, indicative of a bigger, riper, mouth-filling density.

 _Wine has legs?_ There was the inquisitive Stiles Peter knew and loved.

_When you swirl a glass of wine you look for ‘legs’ or ‘tears’ that run down the sides of the glass; wines with good legs have more alcohol and glycerin content, which are fuller bodied and that is what I prefer in a red wine._

Stiles looked impressed as he watched Peter swirl the glass again, this time as he hovered his nose over the top. Someone had once likened the first sniff while hovering over the glass to a helicopter pilot surveying rush hour traffic.

His mate’s eyes crinkled up in amusement as he heard that thought.

Peter set the wine glass down and let the information filter through his brain. There were no flaws to the wine and he enjoyed the complex aroma with his enhanced sense of smell. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Javier filled Peter’s glass to the requisite height before doing the same to the other glass. He folded the towel before tying it around the top of the bottle, leaving it on the table by Peter. “I will stop by in a bit to make sure your needs are being met.”

Barely noticing as the sommelier retreated, Peter stared into Stiles’s eyes. “Do you want to try it?”

Stiles nodded his head, carefully picking up his glass. He followed the same steps as Peter had, giving a full sight evaluation before sniffing it. 

“Tell me what you see and smell,” Peter requested, curious to hear the younger man’s impressions.

“It’s an opaque purple color when I was expecting red. I can see the legs,” Stiles’s eyes crinkled up in that adorable way he had when he was amused, “and it smells fruity. Like berries?”

“Excellent job, Stiles. Soon you’ll be a connoisseur of fine wines.”

Joy was not expressive enough of a word for what Peter was feeling. Stiles was clever and beautiful with an appetite for new experiences and an insatiable curiosity. He was perfect for Peter. 

Picking up the wine glass Peter held it up and waited for Stiles to mirror his actions. “To my perfect mate.” 

“To mine.” With the link, Peter could feel the truth in Stiles’s words.

They clinked the glasses and Peter took a sip, Stiles doing the same. Stiles’s expressive eyes widened as he swallowed, the pleased look turning into panic as he coughed.

His wineglass clinked heavily to the table and Peter pushed it away as Stiles choked and wheezed. Peter rubbed his back reassuringly but as Stiles showed no signs of regaining his breath, he gently thumped between his shoulder blades.

When repeated thumps brought no relief, Peter thought back to the first aid information he’d read regarding humans. “Lift your arms over your head, Stiles.”

Stiles gave him a dirty look even as his eyes watered between coughs. _Are you trying to make me laugh?_

_It’s supposed to open your airways._

_I think that’s my problem, my airways were open and the wine slipped right into my lungs._

_Less arguing and more breathing._

Stiles had a knack for inhaling his food and Peter had witnessed similar episodes before but this was the first time Stiles seemed to be in difficult straits. His lungs were working hard to pull in oxygen but instead of the smooth air exchange, Peter heard crackling and a too fast heartbeat.

When the coughing and choking still hadn’t abated and Stiles was having trouble holding his arms up, Peter reached for his phone. Before he could dial 911, Javier arrived. “Does the young sir need medical assistance?”

“Yes, please call 911. Hurry.”

The skin around Stiles’s mouth was bluish in color. Even if Peter wasn’t linked to him, he would know his mate suffered from chest pain as his hands clutched weakly at his chest. 

_Peter. I can’t—_

When Stiles made a horrible barking noise, Peter hoped he’d finally cleared the obstruction but dark phlegm splattered across the white tablecloth.

Peter smelled blood.

Eyes now at half-mast, Stiles drooped toward the table. Peter wrapped his arm around him, fingers scrabbling for bare skin. He kept Stiles upright, remembering that breathing was easier at an upright angle rather than flat, and concentrated on pulling the pain.

The blue tinged skin color, crackling lungs and tachycardia were horrifying to witness but even worse was the static noise filling the space where Stiles resided in his mind.

-0-

“Now that we have studied his medical history, we would like to do a neuroimaging study on Stiles.”

Peter’s heart clenched at the news. Dr. Abid seemed like a very competent pulmonologist and if he was talking neuroimaging, it sounded like Stiles’s lungs might not be the problem.

“What, exactly, are you looking for?” Melissa McCall asked. When Peter had called Scott, he didn’t know what to expect. It certainly hadn’t been the lively nurse peppering him with questions about Stiles’s condition and then showing up at San Francisco General Hospital in person.

Peter was grateful to have the Registered Nurse’s input. He had never paid attention to medical nuances. As a werewolf he’d healed without issue, at least until the fire. After the fire he’d been so overwhelmed with his condition that once he’d been conscious he still hadn’t paid attention to his doctors and nurses. The rest, as they say, was history. A tortured, pathetic history that Peter was trying to put behind him. With Stiles’s help.

Stiles, his mate who was on a ventilator, his body shutting down as it succumbed to the bacterial infection that had started in his lungs.

“The Aspiration Pneumonia is not resolving as it should for a young, seemingly healthy individual like Stiles. We want to ascertain if there are any underlying medical conditions contributing to his compromised status,” the doctor explained.

“What you’re saying is that Stiles should’ve been able to clear the secretions in his lungs and now you want to rule out if the cause is an abnormal airway structure or a neurological issue. Like Frontotemporal Degeneration,” Melissa probed.

It made a certain sick sense. The weakness. The stumbling. The forgetfulness. But Stiles had been fine. Peter would’ve sensed the problem through the bond.

Peter tuned back into the conversation as Dr. Abid nodded his head. “Yes, that is exactly what we would like to do.”

“Stiles doesn’t like MRI’s,” Peter interjected. They hadn’t talked about it but there was no need to do so; Stiles associated the MRI with the Nogitsune, which for Stiles was synonymous with loss of control and death. But really, wasn’t the disease that had taken Claudia Stilinski also about loss of control and death as much as the nogitsune?

“We would like to compare the MRI he had done two years ago with a new one. The MRI does a better job at showing us anatomical and structural changes while the PET is much better at depicting physiologic processes within the body, such as rates of metabolism or levels of various other chemical activity.” The doctor was being very thorough but Peter wanted less talking and more action.

“Whatever you think is best for Stiles, Melissa.” Peter saw the way Melissa’s eyes widened as he abdicated the decision to her. Peter couldn’t feel the link, he felt like he was losing his mind, and he just needed someone to fix Stiles.

“Please schedule the MRI.” Melissa sounded certain this was the right course. 

Dr. Abid excused himself so he could get in touch with the neurologist.

Melissa squeezed Peter’s hand briefly as she murmured something about updating Scott and Stile’s dad and then she left the lounge.

Peter reached out for Stiles.

A low hum buzzed in his ears.

He was alone.

-0-

The doctors were mystified at how Stiles could’ve gone from having no sign of frontotemporal degeneration two years ago to a full-blown diagnosis complete with final stage symptoms. 

When Stiles had awoken briefly in San Francisco and hadn’t been able to speak due to the ventilator, he’d reached out to Peter through the link. The results had been devastating. The language difficulty and memory loss Stiles was suffering took a toll on both mates. Peter had comforted Stiles as best he could, holding him as closely as the medical devices allowed, even as they both shed tears.

The time for tears was over now. Stiles was back at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital, on hospice, and Peter wanted answers from Deaton. First he had to find him.

“Where is he, Scott?” Peter asked quietly. “The good doctor and I have some unfinished business.”

The lounge was down the hallway from Stiles’s private room. It was the middle of shift and the two nurses on duty were busy in other rooms so there was no reason to conduct this business elsewhere.

“I’m not telling you anything, Peter. It’s your fault Stiles is dying. I wish it was you.” Scott McCall, True Alpha, was finally showing cracks in his niceness.

Peter wasn’t going to dispute the callous words. He wished he was the one dying although if he had been, Stiles would still be in danger. Deaton had been very specific that soulbonded individuals either died together or the remaining soul went mad.

It was quite interesting how the one-time Hale emissary had failed to mention being soulbonded might accelerate preexisting medial conditions.

“I don’t care if you need to blame me but I need to speak with Deaton. I need to know why he didn’t disclose the possible side effects of the soulbond Stiles is suffering from.” Peter was firm but he didn’t raise his voice. Dramatics weren’t going to do anyone any good at this point. 

Too bad young McCall didn’t share his point of view. “You’ve got to be joking, Dr. Deaton would never put Stiles—”

“At risk? Really?” Scott had been rudely cut off. By Lydia. “So he would never fail to mention the specifics regarding you, Allison and Stiles sacrificing yourselves to the Nemeton? Be a little vague with the information about the permanent darkness around your hearts? That Deaton doesn’t ring any bells for you?” she concluded, flipping her waving long hair over her shoulder with annoyance. 

Lydia Martin held a special place in Peter’s heart. Not only had she played a huge role in bringing him back from the dead, but she had become a very close friend to Stiles and seemed to always look out for his best interests. Looking out for Stiles’s best interests was something Scott seemed to struggle with sometimes yet Stiles never held it against him. Stiles really did love Scott like a brother and for that reason Peter would treat the True Alpha with patience. 

Scott’s brow crinkled up with confusion. “Are you saying he knew what would happen to us after we sacrificed ourselves?”

Lydia’s arms were crossed under her bust, giving the patented unimpressed look Peter had come to associate with her. She pursed her lips before she began speaking. “Of course he knew. He also knew the True Alpha would have a better chance coming through things than two humans. Scott, Deaton’s role as an emissary is to see to the alpha’s well-being, not everyone’s.”

Pole-axed was the word Peter would’ve used to describe Scott’s expression. He might have strength of character but he was definitely lacking when it came to seeing the big picture. Of course that was the role Stiles had always filled for him Stiles who was on the verge of dying. 

Peter had always regarded Scott McCall as a slightly dense child. He’d received impressions and memories through Stiles that had hinted at something different and here before him, Peter was witnessing the child becoming a man. “You’re saying a person I put my trust in to see to our safety was doing a half-assed job?”

Scott’s eyes gave a burst of Alpha-red glow before he clenched his fists and regained his composure. “Please, tell me what happened,” he invited Peter although it was just short of a command.

Peter found himself dragged into the drama despite his best intentions, guilt weighing heavily on his mind. Of course he felt it was his fault; Peter had promised to take care of his mate. But Deaton had played just as large of a role.

“Deaton and Stiles came to me about the soulbond. It was Deaton’s idea. He was looking for a way to save you. You raised the ire of some nasty hunters by turning an innocent without permission. Stiles agreed to what he thought would be the easiest solution but he made that decision without having received all of the pertinent facts,” Peter all but growled that last sentence.

Scott looked horrified. Peter was gratified Stiles hadn’t misplaced his trust in his oldest and dearest friend; the True Alpha truly cared for Stiles and Peter thought the druid may have burned his last bridge in Beacon Hills.

The sheriff limped into the lounge, lines of pain bracketing his mouth. He sought out Scott, squeezing the back of his neck. “We all made mistakes, Scott. There’s plenty of blame to go around.” He made eye contact with Peter before continuing, “I had the same questions as you, Peter. I found Deaton. He’s sorry he didn’t tell Stiles about the potential side effects. Really sorry.” 

The sheriff cracked his knuckles and Peter noticed they were abraded. If not for the dire situation, Peter would’ve smirked and offered to buy the man a drink.

Shoulders drooping, Scott apologized to the room at large and then disappeared to see to some business. Peter was too intent on what the sheriff might know to pay much attention to the other man’s departure. “Did Deaton tell you how to reverse Stiles’s condition?”

“He thought maybe if you gave up your alpha powers, it might be enough to save Stiles.” The sheriff had pale blue eyes and different facial features but with that one searching look, Peter could see the resemblance between father and son. Both were good, but pragmatic, men. The sheriff was waiting to see what Peter would do before he tried swaying his decision.

“Let’s go. He doesn’t have long,” Peter said as he bolted through the doorway, the sheriff trailing in his wake.

Peter heard Lydia’s incredulous voice as he left the room. “There’s no way Peter would give up his Alpha powers.”

At one point in time, that was very true. Being an alpha was all Peter had ever wanted. It had driven every decision he’d made since he’d become an adult.

Peter didn’t even have to think about it now. As Stiles would say, this was a no-brainer.

Prior to the soulbond, there would’ve been no thought needed to reach a decision: Peter would’ve fought tooth and nail to retain his alpha powers. He’d worked his whole life, maneuvering and plotting, waiting for his chance. Now he was expected to give up the power and prestige of being Alpha.

The real question lingering at the back of Peter’s mind as he raced toward Stiles’s room was whether these intense feelings would survive the deteriorating soulbond.

Peter didn’t want to live without Stiles.

-0-

Peter pulled the chair over as close as he could get to the bed. Next to his mate. 

Melissa materialized across the bed from him. She was still in scrubs, a stethoscope draped around her neck, demeanor serious.

The sheriff took up residence at the foot of the bed, standing sentinel.

The sheriff cleared his throat, breaking the quietude. “How exactly does this work?”

Peter’s lips turned upward; apparently Stiles wasn’t the only Stilinski who abhorred silence and had insatiable curiosity. 

“I’m going to siphon off Stiles’s pain until it drains my Alpha spark.”

Melissa chimed in, “How will we know when your Alpha spark is gone?”

Peter’s smile turned wolfish as he began to summon his spark. “My eyes will turn from red to blue and Stiles will no longer need the ventilator to breathe.” Stiles’s heartbeat was erratic, too fast and then too slow; he was fading quickly. “Let’s begin.”

Peter settled on the edge of the chair, pushing the sleeves of his V-neck sweater up his arms. He gently clasped Stiles’s cool, long fingers in his own. With his other hand he gripped the lax forearm. 

The pain siphon quickly commenced, the veins in Peter’s hands turning an inky black. He gritted his teeth as the pain wrapped around his nervous system, seeking purchase up his arms, through his neck, and into his brain. At this point he would usually pull his hands away. He persisted.

The sheriff said something and Melissa responded but Peter couldn’t hear the words. His vision receded, things turning fuzzy. He bit his tongue but he couldn’t taste the blood. Even his olfaction abandoned him, Stiles’s earthy scent waning. Only his tactile perception was fully online, his nerves on fire, synapses firing wildly as his body tried to parse the information overload.

His spark exploded deep from within his chest. His senses sharpened without warning.

The muscles in his arms threatened to rupture, veins pulsing and bulging grotesquely. Peter threw his head back and he sent out a silent roar.

The sheriff said something about eye color, Melissa hustled around the bedside, but Peter lost the thread of consciousness, sinking into oblivion.

-0-

Everything hurt. His head, neck and shoulders. His arms. Even his fingers.

Peter blinked his eyes open to find a sea of white. He inhaled deeply. 

Bleach. 

Hospital sheets.

His cheek rested on something that lifted and settled at regular intervals. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

A regular heartbeat.

Peter jackknifed to an upright position, his chair clattering away from him as he stood up.

_Stiles. Can you hear me?_

There was no answering response and Peter’s shoulders sagged. He was pleased to see the machinery had been removed so that Stiles was breathing unassisted but it was demoralizing not having Stiles respond.

Stiles choose that moment to jerk into awareness, his eyes snapping open, staring up at Peter. His lips were set in as much of a line as they could be with their deep curves, the skin between his eyebrows pinched—full concentration.

His mate flailed, crying. “Peter! I can’t hear you.” His voice was cracked and anguished.

Peter eased on to the side of the bed, gathering Stiles into his arms. The brunet head flopped on to this shoulder, breaths coming in heaving gasps. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay now.” Peter smoothed his hand along Stiles’s knobby spine. The teen sobbed undeterred, breaking Peter’s heart further.

The bond was gone.

Depression unlike anything Peter had ever experienced crushed his spirit. It was beyond unsettling. He experienced highs and lows but never to this degree. Unlike…

“Stiles, love, take a deep breath and see if you can access your spark.”

His mate stifled his sobs, his inquisitive nature asserting itself.

“I, um, feel it. It’s glowing, like a small ember.”

Glowing, not burning like a star going supernova. At least it was still intact.

“I need you to concentrate, Stiles. I know you can’t hear my bond voice but what about your empathy? Can you read my emotions?”

Stiles pushed away from Peter’s shoulder, glaring up into his face. “Are you actually happy?” His voice was wrecked from that awful ventilator but the mutinous look on his face was pure Stiles.

“Think, Stiles. Use that big, beautiful brain of yours. What does it mean that I’m happy?”

Peter braced himself as Stiles launched himself back into his arms, rocking him backward with his exuberance. “I can’t hear you but I can feel you. Our bond isn’t broken.” Stiles clutched at Peter’s arm, staring at him, as his spark pushed a weak pulse of power through the skin contact. Peter’s eyes flashed in response.

Stiles leaned backward, gaping up at Peter. “Peter, your eyes are blue! What the hell happened?”

Gently tugging Stiles closer until he was nestled more tightly against his side, Peter sighed. “I gave up the Alpha power.” Unspoken were the words _for you._

Stiles shuddered, burrowing closer. “But that’s all you wanted from me, the Alpha power.”

“No, Stiles, the Alpha power isn’t all I wanted.” Peter tilted the too thin face until he could stare into shining brown eyes. His lips planted a kiss on the upturned nose with a hearty smacking sound. Stiles face contorted into a full smile before his eyes flooded with moisture.

“Hey, hey, what’s with the waterworks?” Peter’s heart clenched with the flood of sadness emanating from his mate. Stiles might be prone to mood swings but it took a lot to make him cry.

Stiles buried his face in the side of Peter’s neck. “I missed you so much. I kept calling but I couldn’t find you. Please don’t leave me again.”

The show of emotion was daunting but as it wrapped around him, Peter could only feel lucky; Stiles was with the one being who completed his soul. 

Saying something mushy and romantic would only undo his exhausted mate’s composure and wear him out when what he really needed was rest. 

Peter contented himself with sharing something he knew to be true even though it lacked special gravitas. “Don’t you know? You’re stuck with me. I’ll follow you. Always.”

 

Finis

**Author's Note:**

> I began this fic previously while working on last year's Hurt/Comfort Bingo Card but I ended up switching gears and going with something else. Peter and Stiles--arguably Teen Wolf's most sarcastic characters--are a joy to write and I was happy to return to this story.
> 
> It's a bit fluffy but I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
